


Above Eternity

by librarybooks



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Pre and Post Time Skip, Red String of Fate, Snowball Fight, The Great Fodlan Bakeoff, although it's only part of the main focus, but sylvix :'), don't let these tags fool you i'm gdeer for life baby, enbyleth heart eyes, i love soulmate aus do NOT @ me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarybooks/pseuds/librarybooks
Summary: Sylvain is his beginning, as much as he is his ending, and Felix will stand with him despite it all.Or: the stages of Felix's growth as he trudges through life with a string attached to his little finger; one that leads, inexplicably, to Sylvain.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 16
Kudos: 104





	Above Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> haha ha... hi! sorry for the long hiatus, but here I am, back with yet another fandom. yay 4 sylvix<3 I have another fic planned for them, so we're in this for the long haul.
> 
> I wrote this for the Great Fodlan Bakeoff! it was definitely a challenge to whip up and edit to completion within the span of a few days, but I'm happy to say that I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out :) the themes as instructed were:
> 
> -exploration  
> -secret  
> -ambition  
> -devotion

  
_Knighthood lies above eternity; it doesn't live off fame, but rather deeds._

\- Dejan Stojanović

* * *

A battlefield in winter is quiet.

It’s not the image Felix would conjure himself when asked about war. There’s no sunlight cutting through the parting clouds; no slashing sword, glinting scattered fractals of silver across the dusty ground. The world doesn’t vibrate with the thunder of stomping feet. There’s no warrior’s grin, a slash of teeth behind a helmet peppered with dents. People aren’t hiding the bodies out here, no; it’s the snow that does the burying.

There’s nothing. It’s hollow, devoid of anything with a heartbeat. A battle is supposed to be a flurry of roaring energy, not silent and… _empty._

Felix shifts his position. His knees, tucked beneath his chin, are cramping. Arms encircle his legs, loose, and his fingers burn from where snow has penetrated his gloves. His ears, reddened in the frigidity, prick at the slightest sound. 

A battle like this — it should have gone differently.

He tries to visualize cool colors and shining knights riding into the storm. He thinks of chilled hands and empty landscapes, each life as fleeting as the last warm breath from a soldier’s blue lips.

Felix is not afraid. He’s _not._

It makes sense, in a way; war in winter. His body is numb with cold, the ache in his arms dulled by the lack of circulation. Projectiles litter the surrounding area, long shattered on impact. Any imprints left behind are temporary, gone as soon as the ice melts. Blood glows in sharp contrast, spattered across endless fields of stark, barren snowbanks.

Felix frowns, shaking his head. _No, no._ That’s not how the story goes. Knighthood is a far more beautiful thing than shallow graves and frozen ground, and white isn’t the color of battle; it’s wrong, somehow. Too bleak and hopeless, as grey as Faerghus winters. Glenn wouldn’t thrive in battle if that were all there is to it — bitter, with nothing but loneliness to hone his blade.

Felix doesn’t think his brother is a knight like that. It’s far too unbearable a thought to entertain. Glenn doesn’t tread through a thick fog, alone and sad. He shouldn’t. He has people standing by him, admirers, his family — he has _Felix_ , doesn’t he?

Felix fists his hand in the snow. It sticks to his glove, crunching with the movement. His brother should know all those things; he’s the best knight there is. The best _brother_ there is. When he’s grown, he’ll be just like him, Felix swears. With his fingers stuck deep in the unfeeling cold, he wishes it to be true. _Glenn_ wouldn’t have any trouble winning a battle like this. 

Felix had thought victory would come easily. He’d plateaued, stuck in the fantasy of his own making. His fault, he supposes.

“Where are you, Felix?”

A voice shatters the silence, tearing him from his thoughts. It’s singsong and loud, resounding across the yard before sinking into the flurried drifts. Felix tenses, burrowing further into his hiding spot. The snow in his hand clumps and hardens as he clenches his fist.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Their tone is _agonizing_ , and they’re getting closer; the crunch of footsteps accompanies their mocking. It’s distant, blurred out by the weather, but there — toying with him, boasting Felix’s inevitable defeat at his hands. And here he is, trapped in the shadow of a snowbank, no sword to speak of. He’s unarmed and cornered with little to show but a Felix-shaped impression in the quickly freezing slush.

_Not today._

Felix gathers a handful of snow, cupping it between his palms. He pats it, packing bits of ice together until it becomes a firm, distinguishable ball. He reaches down to form another, repeating the process until he has a veritable collection of ammunition. The pile he’s stacked is impressive; it’s enough to turn the tide of the battle, if he plays his cards right.

The crush of snow under thick-soled boots is a small sound, minute in the storm, but he hears it. Felix steels himself, grasping his handmade weapons in each palm. They’re tough beneath his gloved fingers, punctuated by icy ridges.

“Hello — ”

He doesn’t give his attacker a chance to finish his sentence. In a whirl, Felix spins on them, launching the snowballs into a landscape of hazy white. It’s not enough to hope for pinpoint accuracy; if he wants to best Glenn, one day, Felix has to strive to win in all that he does.

The sound of bursting snow rings out, and he knows his aim is true. A small, genuine smile curves Felix’s mouth as his target grunts on impact. In the frigid air, the bare-faced elation is enough to make his ruddy cheeks ache.

“You hit me in the stomach!” Felix’s would-be assassin proclaims. A high-pitched whine punctuates his squeal. “That hurt!”

“That’s too bad,” Felix crows, leaning down to gather his arsenal of ice before enemy troops can steal it. He shoves the weapons into every little crevice his arms will allow, and the chill saturates the front of his coat. “I should’ve aimed higher!”

“Don’t you dare!” It’s half shriek, half laughter, a cackle far too joyous as the speaker plows into the drift where Felix sought refuge. Powdered flurries erupt around them, each flake like spring cherry blossoms, floating high only to flutter downward again. They’re mesmerizing as they fall, settling on their eyelashes and their hair. 

Felix stumbles to his full height, the entirety of his chest obscured by a tower of balled-up snow. They’ll probably drop and shatter, but then, at least, Sylvain won’t be able to get them.

He can see him now, a red, boy-shaped blur sticking out amidst the endless background of stormy grey. His knees are buried from where he drove them into the snow pile, and his face is bright with a cabochon-cut grin. 

He’s always smiling, ever since Felix met him. The sight sends a strange tingle up his spine, like he needs to smack him, or maybe tug on his sleeve until Sylvain gets annoyed. It makes Felix itch, as if he’s allergic to his friend’s positivity. 

_Following me around again, Fe?_ He’d say, leaning into his slight height advantage. His eyes twinkle amber; in the dim Faerghus sun, he always glows like a beacon. It hurts to look at him.

“Distraction will cost you,” Sylvain interrupts. The tip of his tongue sticks out as he focuses, busying himself with forming his own makeshift artillery. Bits of ice cling to his gloves, obstructing his shaping, so he removes them. His fingers flush against the cold as he cups his bare hands in the surrounding flurry. 

Felix blinks, and it’s like coming above water. He shakes his head, gentle, to come back to himself. Tendrils of his hair come loose, curling at the wind’s insistence.

It’s a strange feeling.

For once, Sylvain is right; getting lost in thought will not win him this fight. Felix can shelf everything else for a later date — or never, should his subconscious continue to conjure images of Sylvain and summer.

Instead of responding, Felix hefts a snowball for him to behold.

His friend is bigger, although hardly broader, and his size makes for an advantage Felix cannot surpass. If he’s level with him — 

“Is that a threat?” Sylvain acknowledges him with a scoff, fists finding his hips. He raises his chin in a gesture so impressively imperious, he almost doesn’t look like himself. “You won’t.”

Felix will.

He draws his arm back, a purposeful tease. The ball is heavy in his hand, a glorious weapon of hard-packed perfection. As he winds up for the throw, Sylvain’s eyes enlarge, a comic widening of flurry-coated lashes and dilated pupils. Felix revels in it. 

“Don’t!” Sylvain yelps. “Not so close to my face!”

His target moves in slow motion, fumbling to his feet amidst the drift. It makes for a rather ungraceful image; Sylvain flailing about like a beached fish, lacking any semblance of competence. As he tries to flee, his boots crunch through halcyon piles of fresh snow. 

The pads of Felix’s fingers press into the frozen shell of his projectile, leaving small divots. He squints and inhales deeply. The cold has a funny way of smelling as such; indeterminable, carried forth on frosty winds. It’s reminiscent of crushed pine, and the sharp scent snaps Felix’s mind into clarity.

“You’re going to lose,” he calls.

“It’s just a — ” A pause, filled only by labored breathing. “Just a game!”

Felix’s gaze narrows, tunneling to focus on Sylvain’s shock of red hair. It bobs in the distance like flotsam on the open sea. He pleads with luck to forward his aim — archery isn’t the greatest passion of his — and launches.

The snowball hurtles through open air, executing an arc so elegant it could rival Faerghus’ best snipers. Felix’s mouth splits into a rueful smile as it sails downward, looming above Sylvain’s head. It gains momentum as it falls, rotating over itself in a spiral that will inevitably signal its opponent’s defeat.

Victory is close at hand.

At the decisive moment, Sylvain tosses a glance over his shoulder. It’s a delayed realization, then; his feet slow as he observes the distance he’s put between himself and Felix. He blinks. The moment of shuttered darkness is a reprieve from staring into the bright tundra.

He doesn’t see the projectile set on a crash-course for the center of his brow. 

The snowball smacks into his nose, and the force of the strike is enough to knock him off-balance. He descends, sprawling, into another drift. 

Felix hasn’t a moment to celebrate his triumph. A tremendous moan pierces the air, so agonized that he halts mid-leap.

“Sothis above,” Sylvain groans. It’s muffled by the ground, wherein he’s practically made himself a second home. He lifts his head, swaying with the motion. Around him, red droplets are scattered like rose petals in the snow. 

_Oh._ Regret takes root, too late, in Felix’s sternum.

“I — Sylvain!” He lurches forward. Each of his steps is too big, sinking into slush.

“Mm,” the response is weak. Sylvain masks the lower half of his face with his palm. His voice, when it comes, is nasally and muted. “Why’d you try to kill me?”

“Don’t be stupid.” The urge to roll his eyes is strong. Felix resists, continuing his trudge onward. Sylvain has always had a flair for the dramatic; he’s got a talent for it. “You’re still very much alive.”

“I said ‘ _try_ ,’” Sylvain hums, noncommittal. “Yet another failed attempt on my life. One day you’ll succeed.”

It’s said in jest, but the comment is disconcerting; a shiver snakes down Felix’s spine, and he pauses. The idea of Sylvain in genuine danger — his heart twinges behind his ribs. Does he really think he’d hurt him? Is he that _stupid_?

Felix looks up, glancing over Sylvain. The thought churns in his head, like there’s a secret to be found there. 

His next words are slow to come.

“I warned you,” He huffs. The track marks left by Sylvain’s larger pair of boots make moving easier, and he uses his prints as a passage through the quickly hardening ice. “You’re not supposed to die without me, anyway.”

The admission is more than he intended to share. He almost hopes it fell on deaf ears, but Sylvain acknowledges the comment with a watery grin. Their shared promise — of course he recalls it. His cheek dimples warmly at the memory.

As he approaches Sylvain’s side, Felix settles to his knees. Red splatters the surrounding area, the droplets steadily diluted by the white ground. Guilt is a peerless archer; it strikes into Felix’s gut, tearing apart any remnant of satisfaction that remained. 

_Sorry_ , he wants to say. He fears it sounds false on his tongue. Felix’s gaze rises to meet Sylvain’s, and he goes rigid.

His hand is still cupped over his nose. It’s dusted a faint purple, the blood vessels already bursting under his skin. Streaks of red drip from his palm to his wrist, and Sylvain draws up his sleeve to use as a makeshift tissue. It’s already saturated, deepening to the color of wine. 

“What’re you lookin’ at?” He asks, his brows raised. The strain seems like it pains him.

With Sylvain’s hand drenched in crimson, it’s not obvious at first. Felix thinks, for a moment, that there’s another wound; a long scratch, like thinly sliced flesh. The sort of cut that burns. He sidles closer, eyes trained on the wispy strand. 

A red string dangles from Sylvain’s little finger. It’s tied tight, like the knot is wholly intentional. The pinkish marks beneath are raw, as if it’s pressed into him. The tail of it floats downward, wavering in the air as it settles into the snow. 

“What is that?” Felix mutters.

He reaches for it where it coils, buried under a drift. His lashes flutter near his cheekbones, quizzical in his stare. The frigidity must be dulling his mind.

_That can’t be right._

Felix sits, unmoving, as he traces its path. The thread continues, curving around in a haphazard circle and leading in a direct line away from Sylvain. It becomes partially obscured in the flurry, then, before chasing its way up Felix’s arm.

The other end is fastened, presumably, beneath his glove. 

_What?_

_“_ What is it?” Sylvain asks again, echoing his thoughts. Narrow eyes settle on where Felix’s hand has fallen. His palm slips away from his face, revealing the extent of his injury. The damage isn’t irreversible — the blood has already dried under his nostrils. “Did I drop something?”

As Sylvain moves, the string quivers with him. Felix has never seen it before, and now he wonders why. His attention is affixed to it, unable to pry himself away. 

He wonders.

With a decisive tug, Felix rips off his mitt. He lets it fall to the earth in a pile of sodden white. The chill assails him immediately, soaking through his muscles and into his bones.

There, spooled in scarlet, rests his pinky. Felix observes it with undue fascination, like it’s an unforeseen medical condition and he’s the experimental doctor.

“Felix?”

It’s enunciated like a question, one Felix is unsure how to answer. He can respond with another query, or he can try to explain. He could say nothing at all. Each option strikes him as more bland than the last.

Is it a spell? A trick of the light? It could be nothing but a piece of fragmented reality on an uncharacteristically bright day; his eyes have been fooled by less. 

The thought is almost more disconcerting than wondering how the string got there in the first place.

“Do you — ” Felix tries. His lips war against the formation of the vowels, like what he wants to say is not supposed to be spoken aloud. He clears his throat, swallowing his apprehension. “Can you see it?”

“Hm?” Sylvain tilts his head, his hair swaying to the side. His pupils are round and wide; the action resembles a curious puppy. “What do you mean?”

It’s so innocent, so blasé, that Felix knows his ignorance to be true; which means that young master Fraldarius, stricken by misfortune, has a strange condition to consider.

“You’re starting to make me nervous, Fe,” Sylvain murmurs, brushing his index beneath his nose. He wrinkles it as he pinches the bridge. “Is it that bad?”

“No,” Felix says, hollow. He shakes his head, dislodging his errant questions. As he pokes the thread again, a gentle pressure drags into his skin. “No, you’re fine.”

“Do I look like hell?”

Felix peers up, then. He levels Sylvain with a deep-set frown. His tone drips with exasperation. “As usual.”

“There he is,” Sylvain’s eyes crinkle, utterly unaffected. A fresh smile blooms with the bruise across his face. “Normal Felix, always ready to pummel me.”

He’s quite the vision, strewn out and beaten, like he’s just come from a night at the tavern. Sylvain could pass for the victim of a bar fight, if it weren’t for his lacking a flask, and the sprinkled flurries dotting his cheeks like freckles.

Felix turns away, regarding the icy ground with undue interest.

“Stop acting strange,” Sylvain sniffs. He splays his palms, bracing himself to stand. He glances at Felix, wry. “Don’t be shy. Help me.”

Felix wants to continue to prod him, to ask him again if he knows; does he see the crimson line drawn between them like points on a map? Does each tug on the fickle thread garrote him? 

_Can you feel it, too?_

A breath of wind gusts between them. It disturbs the thin, powdered layer that has accumulated on their shoulders. The swirling snow dances like embers above Sylvain’s head.

Felix can’t find the words.

“Lazy,” He grunts instead, rising from his knees. His eyes remain downcast as he reaches toward him. The thread stretches between them, scarcely thicker than a hair, hung loose in the open space. Felix wonders; pulled taut, would it break? “Get up.”

Sylvain grasps Felix by the forearm. He tugs himself up, using the shorter boy as a crutch to regain his balance. Chunks of ice cling hopelessly to his cloak, melting into the fabric. He gives a half-hearted attempt at dusting off his pants. 

“It’s cold,” he says, useless. 

Felix pinches the sopping drapery of his own clothes. The frost has long-since seeped into them, numbing his legs to hell. They’re rife with pins and needles; he pats one, then the other, trying to awaken them. 

“We should go inside,” Felix decides, retrieving his abandoned glove. As he wipes off the snow and pulls it over the tips of his fingers, the thread strains. Felix flexes his fist in the fabric and drops his arm by his side.

“Okay,” Sylvain agrees easily. He slings his overcoat behind him, sodden with ice water. The flop of it against his back sends droplets flying into Felix’s face.

He recoils, blinking. A scowl takes up its customary mantle on his mouth. “Can you not — ” Felix jostles his shoulder and strides past. 

Sylvain flashes his sunlit smile; it rounds his cheeks, lashed pink by the crisp winter air. His laughter echoes until it’s lost in the snow, the sound of it a balm against the chill. 

Buried in his glove, wound tight around his littlest finger, the thread still clings. He feels it, a pulsing heartbeat, laced between the two of them. Felix tries not to think too much about it. 

_Easier said than done._

“Hey, Fe,” Sylvain disrupts his brooding with a gentle prod. It’s annoying, almost — his ability to divert Felix’s attention no matter the situation. His curls slide across his forehead as he leans forward. “Race you there?”

Felix glances up at him.

He doesn’t know what the red string means. He isn’t sure if it’s _real_ , or what it signifies for them, for their future — he can’t be certain it means anything at all. He only knows that it _is_.

For now, perhaps that’s enough.

Felix casts his gaze to the Fraldarius Manor. It’s a mounting shadow in the distance, an ink smear across a strip of blank parchment. Loose strands of hair tickle his face, tugged forth by a freezing breath of wind. He tucks them behind his ears. 

Felix grinds the toe of his boot in the slush, and he runs.

* * *

“Felix,” Sylvain intones, soft. There are layers to the way he says his name, _Felix_ , like he’s something precious; _Felix_ , like he’s a fragile thing to be coddled.

He is _neither._

Sylvain’s touch grazes his shoulder. His hand is gentle, but the contact smolders through Felix’s shirt. It’s a brand, so real and raw that he’s certain if he were to disrobe, he would find curling imprints of fingertips embedded in his skin. Felix resists the urge to jerk away, eyeing their closeness, the undisclosed offer of comfort should Felix accept it.

The thread, ever-present, is still tied tight around Sylvain’s pinky. It rests directly in Felix’s line of sight, the brush of it a barely there tickle. A reminder.

If Felix inspects it, he fears it will fray under scrutiny. It’s a miracle it’s lasted this long.

If he thinks about that too hard, he fears what it means. It’s deeper than he’s willing to acknowledge, a whisper of something just out of his realm of comprehension. Felix has never had a wealth of secrets, but this — this, perhaps he will keep to himself.

He wonders, for a moment, if he could allow himself to enjoy this. To accept any affection in this time of grief — could he?

The thought aches so much that he can hardly breathe. Felix shifts his weight from one foot to the other, lessening the pressure. He ambles for casual, although judging by Sylvain’s expression, he probably looks to be in great pain.

He supposes he is.

“I — ” he croaks, and it’s more frog than human. Felix averts his gaze, squeezing his eyes shut. The darkness is blissful, if only for a moment. It’s a balm to oversaturation. “My father. He summoned me.”

There’s a pregnant pause, brief, as his friend absorbs this information. Felix awaits the expected outburst at the unjustness of it all.

“What?” Sylvain’s voice is strained, colored with urgency. His fingers press harder against Felix’s shoulder, and the force of it sings through his bones. “So soon?”

 _So soon._ He’s right, really. The progression of time pushes past the death of his brother and shoves Felix forward, leaving him no space to mourn.

They haven’t yet retrieved Glenn’s sword.

“Yes.” Felix swallows, thick. Each word is a weight on his tongue, a monologue that does not belong to him. “It’s necessary.”

“I — I don’t — ” Sylvain’s grip slackens, only just. “In the wake of everything?”

 _The wake of everything_. The statement surges through his system like a lightning bolt. Other people were lost, too — more than Felix can count. A whole brigade, the royal family, save for Dimitri. It’s inherently selfish for him to grieve only for Glenn, but then, it’s his brother; everything he aspired to be.

Thinking at length sends him into a spiral. He’d prefer to train.

Felix turns, angling himself away. It’s enough of a hint for Sylvain to draw back. His hand twitches as he retreats, and the thread attached quakes gently. His face is still pale with unabashed shock.

“An honor, he called it,” Felix keeps his gaze trained downward. “For a new heir. For me.”

The hitch in Sylvain’s breath speaks volumes. He filters through a series of expressions before he settles on regret. Felix doesn’t look, but he can see it: the downward curve of his mouth, tufts of red hair curled cross his furrowed brow. A sadness so profound, it goes deeper than their shared loss at Duscur.

“Felix,” he tries again, gangly arms dangling by his sides, useless.

Felix shakes his head. It dislodges his loosely tucked ponytail, and strands of it drift down to his nose. He hopes they obscure his eyes — Felix can’t be sure what he looks like at the moment, throbbing with anguish of fifty different variants.

How could he possibly begin?

Life upended, a third of his family gone, and Felix is gifted with the title of _heir?_ He’s placed in a position many would die for, for which his brother _did_ — and he must feign pleasure about it. How does he say that _he doesn’t care_?

Felix will never truly please his father, short of dying in battle. No matter how hard he trains, he will always wonder if he could be _half_ the man Glenn was; if he could’ve surpassed him one day. Now, he has no choice. Felix is a boy besieged by expectations he may reach for but never touch.

And Sylvain — 

He’ll watch Sylvain, because existing around him is both an affliction and an addiction. Felix is tied to him inextricably, and it hurts. 

He does not vocalize this. Instead, he lifts his chin, swaying back and forth with the force of his head-shaking. _I have to speak with him._

Felix knows, somehow, that Sylvain understands.

_This is a conversation meant for me._

_For Glenn._

The sorrow in Sylvain’s gaze shutters into grim acceptance. He delivers a single, decisive nod, his hands plastered to his sides. Felix is uncertain whether he wants him to reach forward once more.

“I’ll wait for you here,” Sylvain offers. An olive branch, of sorts.

It’s kind. Tempting, even, but Felix doesn’t know if he’ll tread this path again. He’s come to a canyon, one deeper and longer than Zanado. Either he crosses it, or he’ll stumble along the ledge and fall. Both options bode ill for him — for them, if he’s dragging Sylvain into his mess.

He leaves his friend’s bid unanswered. This is a walk he must take alone.

The corridor beyond them is quiet. It’s cold when it’s empty, all wide and yawning, a match to the cavernous ache in Felix’s chest. He knows its layout; he could map it with his eyes shut, these halls that make for the foundation of his earliest memories. Each column lining the marble-tiled floor — they’re all that’s left.

He must go to his father. He has to _understand._

Sylvain does not stop him as Felix trudges forward. He watches him go, his mouth flattened into a thin line. His hands drift to his pockets, just to have something to do with them.

The corridor stretches long into shadow. It feels an immeasurable distance, like if Felix were to traverse it, he’d keep walking and never reach his destination.

The illusion brings little comfort.

One beat, two. Each step echoes in the vastness of the hall, ringing out like a death knell. As Felix edges further away from Sylvain, the thread between them lengthens. It does not grow taut. 

  
  


“‘Knighthood lies above eternity,’” his father says, reclining in his seat. He wears grief like a velvet cape, modest and wholly encompassing, although a sort of deception lies beneath. Felix wonders if there is any meaning behind his tears. “Have you heard that before, Felix?”

“Don’t spout pretty nonsense,” Felix responds, bracing himself on the back of a chair. An uncomfortable ache takes root in his abdomen, one seared into him by loss. He feels the urge to scream and vomit at the same time. “He’s dead.”

“‘It doesn’t live off fame, but rather deeds,’” Rodrigue ignores him. He casts his gaze at his hands, bare. Perhaps talk of knights makes him yearn for a weapon. “And Glenn…” He looks up then, hair mussed, his eyes glassy. They settle on Felix. “His deeds surpass all of ours. You should be proud, my son.”

It strikes Felix like a cannon blast. _Proud._

He chokes on the shape of the word. “ _Proud?_ ”

“You are the new heir, Felix.” His tone is clipped, rife with the empty promise of greatness. 

There are a plethora of emotions churning in his stomach, and none of them are pride. At Rodrigue’s speech, the sickness plunges deeper. It’s as though he’s dropped Glenn’s blood-stained casket at his feet, expecting celebration. Felix stumbles, his fingers pressing into the rich fabric of the lounge.

His father pays him no mind, diverting his attention to a book draped across his lap. It’s thick and worn, heavy. He thumbs through it, his index tracing the same line of text as he absently mouths the empty words he fed his son; blessings of knighthood, of eternal glory. The pages are brittle with age. 

Felix longs to burn it, but even a fire bursting forth from the bindings couldn’t drive away the cold that rushes through his veins.

“You never loved him,” he spits, and it’s all he can say before illness overtakes him. The room spins, a wild blur of icy blues. A flash of silver. A broken sword.

Perhaps white is suited to war. All of that blank landscape; plants and bodies frozen in facsimiles of death. 

_Knighthood lies above eternity._

Felix swallows the bile in his throat. He releases his grip on the chair, forcing his focus upon the single constant he knows. The thin red band, ever wrapped around his pinky. It’s pulled tight, tied in a dainty bow — it’s never occurred to Felix to untie it.

He stares at it until he grounds himself, until the stars regain their rightful positions in the barren sky. He waits, and imagines that he could stay here, biding his time until Rodrigue rots on his satin throne.

_Eternity._

At last, Felix summons the strength to lift his head. He glances at his father, then looks away. He leaves the chamber, wordless, as the walls echo with Rodrigue’s claim.

 _Bullshit._ A leather-bound book knows little, he thinks, compared to his brother. And Glenn is gone.

* * *

Sylvain wants to be a Great Knight. A worthy endeavor, one the Officers Academy can support, but — 

“Why,” Felix says, looking askance at Sylvain’s veritable tower of meat. He’s taken a page out of Raphael’s book, it seems. Felix isn’t certain where he’s putting all of it; he wonders if passing his certification exam is worth packing on enough muscle to heft a battering ram alone. 

“Huh?” Sylvain hums through his mouthful of mutton. He glances up, cheeks stuffed like a feeding gerbil. “Why what?”

He has a propensity towards thoughtlessness, but there’s no way he’s that dense _._ It’s impossible. Felix’s mouth tightens, and he sends a quick prayer to the goddess for his own sanity.

“Your — ” He begins, scowling. He’ll try to keep his temper in check — _try_ being the operative word. “Your plate.”

If they were alone, it would be fine. Probably.

Felix can better handle his maddening habits when there are less witnesses present. But Sylvain has a talent for remaining unconcerned no matter the circumstances, and with the Professor dining beside them, Felix simmers in uncomfortable silence.

“What about it?” Sylvain asks, gaze flicking downward. He chews his food, slow and contemplative, like he’ll find an answer in the center of the meat.

The Professor glances back and forth between them, their eyes scintillant jewels beneath heavy lids. It’s lazily analytical, as if they’ve assessed both Felix and Sylvain and deemed them unthreatening. Their fingers tap an absent rhythm on the edge of the table; it calls to him, singing through Felix’s veins like a war drum.

The Professor has a strange effect on him like that.

 _Sothis_. He really can’t handle being around the two of them at the same time. Between Sylvain’s carefree humor and the Professor’s silence, their personalities clash in a rather magnificent way. 

_ The worst. This is the worst. _

Felix wants nothing more than to charge forth with his sword and prevent the awkwardness from worsening. If he started swinging aimlessly, they’d join in, wouldn’t they? He can’t be the only one smoldering with unease.

“I don’t know how you’re eating all of that,” Felix continues to observe the mutton tower. Its foundation has been weakened by Sylvain’s appetite — if it doesn’t topple, it will prove itself to be a truly remarkable feat of engineering. “It’s a feast in itself.”

Sylvain pauses. He processes the words, then shrugs without putting down his knife. “I’m hungry.”

The Professor quietly takes a bite of their own meal. Placidity isn’t unusual for them, but this entire situation is mortifying. Felix feels an irrational tide of anger rise in his gut, and decides that he loathes Sylvain, terribly.

If the thoughts sound suspiciously like internalized bluffs, he chooses to ignore it.

“Glutton.” Felix’s eye twitches beneath his fringe. He gestures in the general direction of the queue forming before the head chef. “Did you save some for the rest of the monastery?”

_ As if they’d want to eat it _ , he thinks, but doesn’t add. The meals are from Faerghus today, which doesn’t demand much in terms of spice, but his point stands. People need to eat. 

“Don’t be absurd,” Sylvain demolishes another piece of veal, maintaining his stare throughout. It’s disturbing, like he’s threatening Felix with a similar fate. “There’s plenty up there.”

Across from them, the Professor politely covers a smirk with their hand. Felix wants to die, just a little. Why the brunt of Sylvain’s embarrassment should be cast onto him, he doesn’t know. He’s not his keeper.

 _It’s annoying_ , Felix thinks. His frown deepens, sharp as stone. It’s the sort of expression that Glenn once told him would be permanently sculpted into his face. _Annoying and wrong._

“You’re insatiable,” He grunts, reaching for a spare napkin ring. The metal is cool to the touch as he grasps it, tossing it toward Sylvain. “I can’t stand you.”

“Then sit down,” Sylvain suggests, the smarmy bastard.

Felix’s silverware clatters to the tabletop. It clinks against his plate, destabilizing a pile of peas. They tumble into his potatoes. He flattens his palm beside the assailed vegetables, pressing firmly enough to merge with the wood. “You are so — ” 

The Professor sighs through their nose, so soft it could be misconstrued as a rush of air. It’s accompanied by a slight shake of their shoulders, a tumble of loose hair over their shoulder. For anyone else, it would be nothing but a breath; but for them, it’s near equivalent to a cackle. He and Sylvain both whip toward the sound as if they’d practiced for it.

_Is the Professor... laughing?_

Another small exhale escapes them, their face alight. It’s still as neutral as ever, but their lips curve upward, and the corners of their eyes crinkle. Felix stops before he can stand, before his knuckles can whiten to the color of bone around Sylvain’s neck.

“It’s good to know you’re so friendly with each other,” the Professor says. It’s the last thing Felix expected to hear.

The glance Sylvain passes him is brief, before he turns away. Felix’s hackles fall, and he blinks at them both for a long moment. The Professor is stoic once more, breathing even and slow.

Felix sucks in his words, unsure of how to respond.

“You should laugh more often, Professor,” Sylvain interrupts, effectively shattering the calm. His bright white teeth flash, drawing attention like moths to a flame. “It’s good for you.”

“Mhm,” the Professor says, noncommittal. They sift through their own plate, and it occurs to Felix that perhaps the menu is unfamiliar to them. “You’ve known each other for long, then?”

“Forever,” Sylvain agrees. He brings the napkin to the corner of his mouth and wipes, proper, like a true lord of the court. Behind the fabric, his smirk is more playful than it ought to be. “I’ve known Felix since he was — ”

Oh no. The last thing they need is to regal the Professor with stories of their youth; it’s inconsequential, and he refuses to be embarrassed further in the rutting _dining hall_. 

“Young,” Felix cuts in, shooting Sylvain a sidelong glare. “Since we were young.”

Sylvain gives him a vague smile. It’s more of an unreadable twist than anything, layered with bemusement. He leans forward on his elbows. “Yes, but — ”

“I will get up and leave if you continue that sentence,” Felix says, and means it. He’s not sure if it would do any good, but it would spare him this misery, so there’s that. “No awkward reminiscing.”

Sylvain’s lips quirk. “You’d leave me and the stunning Professor by our lonesome?” He lifts his arms behind his head, leisurely pulling them into a stretch. “What a shame.”

Ah. Sylvain never fails to prove himself as the embodiment of his frustrations. _He’s incorrigible._ Felix’s fists clench in his lap, sharp nails carving crescents into his palms. It’s grounding.

The Professor tilts their head. It’s an intensely birdlike motion, quick yet unruffled. Their movements are as subtly mythical as the intimidating aura they carry; the uneasy feeling hasn’t left Felix since they first came to Garreg Mach, but he hasn’t been able to determine why.

Sylvain affects him similarly. Their friendship is rife with unpredictability, with yet-unexplored elements between them. Felix has never been one to fear the unknown, exactly, but there are parts of his childhood friend that he still can’t comprehend.

It reminds him of empty plains in winter; of a red as deep as wine.

Their thread still cinches his little finger. It’s laced and striking, a slash like blood on his skin. For years, it’s been tied to him. It has done nothing to resolve his confusion. 

Felix often feels like he’s staring at an incomplete picture, like somebody shattered glass and left unmarked shards on the floor. He’s tried to put them together, but it’s still broken — so broken, he’s not sure if all the pieces are there.

Sylvain. The Professor. Garreg Mach. _Glenn_. They’re all there, fragmented and scattered about to form an unknowable whole. Perhaps one day, Felix will reconcile not having all the answers.

“How did you meet?” The Professor asks, blinking those gemstone eyes.

The question hangs in the air for a beat too long.

“Our parents were friends,” Felix studies the wood grain on the tabletop. It’s knotted and discolored, worn smooth by millennia of wandering fingers.

Sylvain hums in agreement. “It’s because of them we get along so well,” he says, grinning at Felix again. It’s a bit less vibrant than before. Uncertain. 

Felix nods. The movement is minute, hesitant. When he opens his mouth to speak, his tongue is dry, his voice as rough as a whetstone. “I suppose we do.”

For now, maybe being able to answer this is enough.

* * *

When he was young, Felix thought white was not a shade of war.

There’s little match between white and the bursting yellow-orange of fire, the inky purples and browns of a crater left by explosions. White doesn’t look like the shouting from raw throats, parched and sore on a burning field; it’s not the keening of carrion birds, circling above men who are not yet dead.

No, Felix often pictured war in red.

And red it is, bright as flower petals with a stench far less fragrant. The dripping vibrancy is sickening, tampering with his mind. It invades his nightmares, dyeing them crimson. In them, the twisted string dangling from his little finger, too loose for comfort, leads him to a grave.

Felix fears it’s a premonition. He wakes each night, his clothes damp and clinging to sweaty skin. Anxiety courses through him, driving him to give the thread a cursory tug. He never expects a response; every time, it drifts languidly back to the floor, puddling in a coil.

Felix doesn’t sleep much, anymore. He _can’t._ He closes his eyes, and he’s _there_ — a broken hilt, stabbed into pockmarked earth. The bodies of his allies, splayed and unnaturally still. A frayed thread, pushed deep into flesh like a garrote. Felix pulls until it breaks.

War is bloodshed, and bloodshed is red. It stains his sword and its scabbard, his armor, his hands. No matter how he scrubs them, the water will not run clear.

But war, Felix realizes, is also the cool white of loss. It’s bitter chill and the pallor of death; it’s the clash of silver blades on an unyielding plain of smoke. It’s cold. White is the remnant after the fire is quenched, dusting riddled black scorch marks with ash. 

When Felix dreams — of his brother, his father — they’re tinged in similar hues. The palest blue, a blanket of detritus draped across them where they’re laid to rest. The landscape is void, empty of all but fog, with nothing but a legacy to stand. 

_Knighthood above eternity,_ his father had said, once.

And Felix thinks, in the end, white is all there is.

* * *

Sylvain is an idiot.

It’s not debatable, or even an exaggeration; it’s an unerring fact. Sylvain is an idiot, a careless one, and his misadventures will be the root of Felix’s grey streaks at the ripe age of twenty-two.

He _hates_ him. He hates him so much.

“You really are a fool,” Felix sniffs, surging forward to cover Sylvain’s forehead with his cupped palm. He’s relieved to find that the skin isn’t overly warm; just clammy, a bit sweaty, like he’d just endured a particularly grievous training session at the Professor’s behest. Normal for a post-battle cooldown, after being struck and rushed off the field.

The thought flattens Felix’s mouth into a tight line.

“I’m not,” Sylvain wheezes. It’s a weak argument by all accounts; the words sound like they’ve been dredged from the deepest recesses of his lungs. His complexion is more pallid than usual, which is saying something, and the bandages wrapped around his waist need to be changed.

Felix glowers at the soiled dressings before lifting his gaze. It’s sharp and serious, the angriest expression he can muster. He levels it with Sylvain, who at least has the decency to look chastised.

“You are,” Felix assures him, although his voice carries less animosity than before. A heavy sigh escapes him, and his hand slackens where it rests. He’s still frustrated and mildly stressed, but all of his worry seeps out of him with the contact. 

_Sylvain is here. He’s fine._

Felix’s fingers slip, trailing down Sylvain’s face. He tracks the movement with his eyes; their red thread dangles between them, near enough to his nose that Felix is surprised it doesn’t tickle. He supposes that makes sense, if Sylvain can’t see it. If it brushed his own face, he’d probably sneeze.

_He’s alive, with me._

They slide further, and the tip of Felix’s pinky stays just shy of Sylvain’s upper lip. He traces its bow, mesmerized. The touch lingers a moment too long.

“Felix,” Sylvain says. It’s not so much an interruption as it is an awakening; his eyes are wide, and a faint blush paints itself across his cheeks. They’re spattered with a high concentration of freckles, like a handful of scrunched sand. His brow furrows, though not, Felix thinks, with distaste.

 _Oh._ He isn’t prepared to wrest the implications of that. _Oh, Sothis._

“I, um,” Felix withdraws quickly, as if burned. He takes a purposeful step back and clears his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs, telling in and of itself. “Sorry.”

Sylvain doesn’t speak. He just gives a little shake of his head, his pupils large. It nearly brings Felix to his knees. 

_A puppy. He’s a rutting puppy._

“You’re a fool,” Felix mutters again, for lack of anything else to say. There’s little bite to it now — his insults are hollow and entirely non-threatening. 

Sylvain chuckles nervously, hands rising in submission. His laughter is such a relief to hear in the infirmary, Felix for once doesn’t care that he’s such a _trifling moron_.

“I won’t apologize, if that’s what you’re looking for,” Sylvain’s injuries were bound tightly by the nurses, and he sits stiffly. He shifts in his spot, a solemn half-smile curving his mouth. “But you don’t have to worry so much for me.” 

“Hmph.” Felix huffs. He crosses his arms, clenching the thick fabric of his sleeves, and observes Sylvain where he rests.

He studies the lines of his body, some still encased in armor. They’re propped up awkwardly on the thin hospital mattress. Sylvain’s hair is matted on top from where he fell in the mud, and different parts of him are decorated with dirt. He’s littered with small scratches, cut by gravel, and the strips binding him are more red than white. An uncharacteristic slump worsens his posture. Felix scowls again.

_No need to worry. Right._

Without saying anything, he darts forward with whiplike speed. Sylvain doesn’t react — he allows himself to be prodded, or perhaps he’s simply too trusting — as Felix delivers a gentle, yet intrusive, poke to his side.

“Ack,” A tiny wince rushes through him, like a twitch. There’s no real whimper or grunt; it’s barely a response, really. Sylvain scrunches one eye shut, presumably to absorb the pain, although Felix isn’t certain how that works. “Uncalled for.”

 _Pah._ He’s an idiot. Felix thinks everything Sylvain does is _uncalled for._

“Ridiculous,” He mutters, because it is. “Utterly ridiculous.”

The stain on Sylvain’s torso doesn’t grow. It’s long-dried by now, which is a silver lining. The cut had been small. Vicious, but small.

“I can hear you, you know.”

It’s an attempt at humor — a poor one. Sylvain’s grin is weak, his hands tucked in his lap, overtop of the worst of the wound. The thin string around his finger dribbles over his arm and downward, drifting to the floor. It’s not the first time Felix thinks it’s blood. 

Brainless. Rash. _Stupid_. _I was so worried about you._

“Sothis above,” Felix swears, because he’s capable of little else. “I can’t believe you let yourself get hurt.”

The image is fresh in his mind, stark against his eyelids every time he closes them. Felix blinks, and he remembers: the shallow swell of Sylvain’s chest as he urged his steed forward, the glistening drop of sweat by his temple. He moved like the wind, hooves barely touching the earth, but even that wasn’t fast enough.

Sylvain was carted off the field before Felix could vanquish the offending opponent.

“It was for you,” he says, like that means anything. Sylvain is quiet, subdued in the chill of the room. It sinks into Felix’s bones. “They were going to hurt you.”

 _You should’ve let them_ , the words sit heavy on the tip of his tongue. They burn, each one a smoldering ember. Felix wants to scream. _Better me than you._

He doesn’t vocalize his concerns, and Sylvain heaves a breath. It’s more effort than it should be; tucked behind trusses, each gulp of air shakes his frame. His lungs expand behind his ribs, feeling full, too full — “I know what you’re going to say — ”

_No, you don’t._

“Sylvain,” Felix exhales, in the exact same way he’d just invoked the goddess. He struggles to bury the frustration lacing his tone, but he _tries_ , and the effort has to count for something. It sinks like a weight in his stomach. 

He reaches out, his hands still enclosed in swordsman gloves. They’re thick, worn leather, and Felix mourns the degree of separation between their skin as he braces his palm on Sylvain’s shoulder. It’s broad and muscular, and he trembles at the contact. Felix squeezes, gentle. 

“I need you to stick around,” he whispers. It’s a ghost of a claim, spoken so softly it’s near-inaudible. Vulnerability prickles under the surface, and it _aches_. A chasm yawns where Felix’s heart should be. “For me. Don’t you remember?”

Sylvain tenses under him. He inhales, and the rounded slope of his spine snaps upward like a wobbling, bent sword. Despite the situation, he looks absurdly good resting there in his tightly wound bandages, the sharpness of his shoulder blades limned in torchlight. 

_Goddess._ Felix bites down on his tongue until he tastes metal. He needs to keep it bound, lest he spews something embarrassing, like a love confession. _Get a hold of yourself._

“Of course I remember.” Sylvain blinks. The movement is owlish and slow; it gives the impression that he’s just awoken from a long slumber. Felix’s touch doesn’t leave his arm, and Sylvain’s brows furrow as he considers him. 

“I’m not — you know,” he opens his mouth, closes it again, like a gasping fish. “I’m not going anywhere, Felix.”

“Hmph,” Felix has trouble reconciling the statement with his recent behavior. Sylvain’s foolhardy, injury-prone, and selfless in the line of fire. It makes for a horrible combination. The bloodied dressings are still patching up his middle, for Sothis’ sake. He’s all talk. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m not,” Sylvain insists. He leans forward as if to defend himself, cringing as he jostles the wound.

The man disproves his own goddamn point, but he’s too thick-skulled to see it.

“Alright,” Felix releases him with some regret, gritting his teeth. The sudden lack of contact is cold, despite his gloves. “Fine.”

It’s okay like this — Felix will humor him. Believe him, even. For now.

“I swear,” Sylvain raises his palm to his sternum, his fingers dipping in the shallow grooves by his collarbone. The red thread dangles, suspended between them. “A promise is a promise.”

It’s not their first vow. Felix recalls entangled pinkies against a frozen backdrop, their skin flushed in the cold. They’d fit together like lock and key, two halves of a greater whole. _A promise is a promise._

Felix’s gaze catches the swaying string, then. It wafts, as it always does, an ever-present lightstream. Floating, falling, and — 

Growing taut.

Felix startles. For an instant — just a fraction of a second — he thinks he feels a tug.

 _No_ , he breathes. It’s a quick, tiny pull, as if snagged. The barely-there pressure cinches his little finger. He flexes it, awed. _This has — it’s never happened before._

Before him, Sylvain is motionless, his hands fisted. He isn’t grasping at it, yanking like a child on a Maypole like Felix half-expected him to be. He doesn’t notice at all, although he studies Felix with an air of vague interest. His placid expression betrays nothing. “What?”

“I — ” Felix murmurs, because for once, he’s at a loss. “I think — ”

But the moment has passed, and the force pinching him lifts. The thread drifts back down to the floor, unmoving. 

Sylvain says nothing as Felix watches it fall.

* * *

If he concentrates, forsaking his memories of everything else, perhaps he has seen the thread before. Long ago, before falling in the snow, with droplets red as rose petals; before that cold Faerghus winter, with hands numb and skin like ice.

Perhaps he had, and hadn’t known, or understood. But Felix does not recall, and it matters not. Sylvain is his beginning, as much as he is his ending, and Felix will stand with him despite it all.

He wonders, sometimes. He wonders what would happen if he were to tell Sylvain that he loves him; that ties have bound them since birth or even before. The thread between them runs ever stronger, thickened by the bonds of battle, its redness untainted by grime.

Felix sees it when Sylvain canters across the battlefield, wielding the Lance of Ruin. He feels it surging through his veins and blooming in his chest, like he rides with him, moving swift beside his mount’s galloping feet. He watches as Sylvain celebrates another win, armor-clad fist raised above his head amidst the throes of victory.

He could try, he thinks. Felix could open his mouth to say it, but his tongue is made of cotton, and his words are nothing but an echo. They’re fractured, split in places he hasn’t the strength to look.

When Felix imagines speaking his thoughts aloud, all he sees is a great plain of white.

* * *

“You’ve come.”

The voice, deep and musical, reverberates through the hollows of Felix’s skull. It travels down his spine and lodges in his vertebrae, sticking like a bur. An involuntary shiver tracks gooseflesh across his skin.

Felix knows it well; he could trace the timbre with the pad of his finger, match his breaths with the way it forms vowels. It’s the voice of one he’s watched grow and change, shifting from a boy’s to a man’s.

He never has been able to shake its influence on him. 

“I have,” Felix clears his throat. He rests his palm on the pommel of his sword, sheathed at his hip. His chainmail clinks with the movement — it’s still marred and encrusted with filth. 

Before him, Sylvain appears marginally less ghastly. Hunched over the siding of the bridge, he overlooks the sprawling rubble of Garreg Mach. He leans forward on his elbows, his arms crossed and gaze keen. Bits of armor still adorn his person; in the early streaks of dawn, the dented metal makes him glimmer like valuable ore. They’re not as bloodied as Felix’s own; he supposes it’s an unexpected bonus that comes with spending battle astride an ironclad steed.

“I knew you would,” the hum is accompanied by a grin; Felix hears it in his tone. “Or, um,” Sylvain passes him a glance, reminiscent of his younger self in its sheepishness. His upturned lips are soft. “Rather, I hoped. I hoped it would be so.”

These past months, muted enthusiasm has colored his words; now they spill gladly from his mouth. Sylvain still sounds tired, but it’s not flushed with anxiety. On the contrary — when he speaks, it’s laden with relief. Felix hasn’t heard him so placid since their time as students here. Longer, even — Sylvain always carried a crippling sense of unworthiness, injected into his veins by Miklan and left to fester.

Winning a war doesn’t erase such deep-rooted trauma, but it certainly has a way of pushing it beyond the forefront.

“Hmph,” Felix’s fingers twitch on his weapon, and a smile slips into his huff. He falls into good humor far too easily around Sylvain; it’s horrible for his reputation. “Confident, were you?”

“Nah,” Sylvain says. He returns his attention to the rambling churchyard, evasive. The morning glow reflects his eyes, glinting a familiar shade of amber. “Just trusting.”

The beginnings of sunrise peek over the horizon, painting streams of light just beyond the mountaintops. Their peaks shimmer pink in the haze, as if dipped in rose water. Beneath them, shadows cast the landscape in stark relief, leaving the grounds to drowse in twilit dusk.

Felix strides forward to join him. He leans against the masonry, his gloves hooking on snags in the brick. It’s rough under the leather; Felix can feel it against his palms. 

Sylvain’s gauntlets are tossed aside. His hands sit bare, colorless in the dim. Their thread, ever-present, is tied around his little finger. It coils between them, twisted over itself in dual loops.

If Felix were prone to sentiment, he’d say it’s shaped like infinity.

He traces the outline of it with his gaze. The string is as thin as ever; with the circles coalescing, he wonders if they’ll knot. If he tried to untangle it, would it come loose again? Stuck on stone, will it fray?

After all they’ve been through, will it finally snap?

_Infinite, huh._

Sylvain shatters the relative quiet with a sigh. It draws Felix from his reverie, and the hazy thoughts disperse. His focus breaks away from the thread, tracking over the slump of his friend’s shoulders instead.

“I wasn’t sure we’d make it here,” Sylvain breathes. He doesn’t look away from the cresting sun as he speaks; it’s only just begun to illuminate his cheeks, moving freckle by freckle like a dawning constellation.

Felix doesn’t completely understand him. “ _Here_ ,” is distressingly vague; here, as in the conclusion of the war? Here, present at Garreg Mach? _Here_ , together?

Does Sylvain see them as adamantine as Felix does, even without his knowledge of the red string?

“Mhm,” Felix grunts, noncommittal. It’s neither concession nor disagreement. “What do you mean?”

“This. Here,” Sylvain says, lifting his palm face-up by way of explanation. Their thread wavers with it, twirling in the air. He gestures ambiguously at the scattered remains of the Officers Academy — the war-torn cathedral, all demolished nearly six years ago, now. “The end.”

Ah. The war, then. Felix braces both hands against the brickwork. His fingers splay, dipping into the divots left between the stones. He hums as he considers this.

“Is it really an end?”

The question doesn’t strike Felix as cynical until Sylvain glances at him. His entire countenance drips with fatigue — dark crescent moons are painted under each eye, and his brow is so deeply furrowed that the wrinkles could double as freshly-sowed vegetable rows.

“I think it is,” the flat line of Sylvain’s mouth becomes a frown. “At least, I hope so. Don’t you?”

A sense of mild frustration surges in Felix’s chest. His intention isn’t to be jaded or cruel; _of course_ he yearns for a resolution. The conclusion of bloodshed, of loss — he’s ached with everyone else. Perhaps more so, sometimes.

Still, his curiosity is genuine. _Is it_ the end? Of everything?

“I don’t mean it like that,” Felix backtracks. He scans the horizon for _something_ to latch onto — anything to save him from staring continuously at his friend. “I’m asking. It’s a question.”

“‘Is it an end?’” Sylvain repeats. There’s no mockery in his tone, although it carries a lilt, the hint of another question buried within it. His lips purse as he considers the words, as if he wants to say, _what else would it be?_ His expression is almost vacant, like his brain has to work overtime to process Felix’s comment. 

Felix’s gaze remains trained on the far-off peaks. He can grant Sylvain this, at least: a moment to think.

“Is this about perspective?” Sylvain says, then. It’s spoken like a sigh, but there’s no real exasperation in his voice. “Is that what you’re going on about?”

 _Yes. That’s it._ Felix nods, and the irritation biting at him lessens a bit. “Obviously.”

Sylvain shifts where he stands, leaning further into the masonry. “ _Obviously,_ ” he snorts. A lopsided grin quirks on his mouth. Felix struggles to ignore his hands where they’re clasped, lithe and threaded in red. “It wasn’t blatant at all.”

 _Pah._ Felix scowls at the horizon, as if it’s the mountains’ fault that Sylvain is such an idiot. He thought he was making a good point, one uncharacteristically sanguine, and Sylvain has to go and ruin it.

“That’s because you’re a fool,” Felix lifts his chin, indignant. “The biggest in all of Fódlan.”

Of course it’s about perspective. It _is_ obvious, isn’t it? A won war doesn’t mean an end. Not like a final battle, or even a visit to the grave. It’s conclusive, a way to build up to something _new_ , but not necessarily an end.

It’s the start of something better.

“So you’ve said. Don’t go trying to hurt my feelings now,” Sylvain smiles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, sparkling and altogether too cheerful. Each part of him is a shard of the sun, broken into pieces. He blazes even at the crack of dawn. “What did you expect? It’s not like I can read your mind.”

Felix supposes this is his fate; to smolder, day and night, for one man. He stares resolutely ahead, but his fingers flex and his grip tightens on the wall. 

“I thought my meaning was clear,” he says, somewhat strained. His body has begun to ache from standing so still. A muscle flickers in his neck.

Sylvain blows out a breath. “You were being far too abstract.”

 _You’re incredibly obtuse,_ Felix thinks, but doesn’t say. He doesn’t look at Sylvain, doesn’t trace the silhouette of his unruly hair that glows like an ember at first light. He knows it by memory. _And I’ve loved you for so long_.

“Not really,” Felix’s rebuttal is soft. “I don’t think I was.”

The next minute is enveloped by semi-stilted silence. Ahead of them, the pink peaks blossom into dazzling orange, burning away what few clouds remain. The sun winks just out of reach, barely grazing Felix’s brow. Even the smallest piece of it is a caress, embracing him with tantalizing warmth. 

It does not feel like an end; it’s infinite.

“Like a beginning,” Sylvain exhales, and Felix wonders if he can hear his thoughts, after all. His folded hands unclasp, spreading out like slowly pooling water. “That’s what you meant, wasn’t it?”

It was. But when Sylvain says it like that, quietly into the brisk morning air, Felix feels — 

He wrinkles his nose, face heating. It’s embarrassing. He sounds lovesick, like one of those church-dwellers that write hymns about the grand divinity of a goddess they’ve never seen.

“In — uh, in a sense,” Felix acquiesces. His nod is jerky, as if he were slapped on the back of the head. He hopes the brightening sky conceals his flushed skin. “Yes.”

 _A beginning, hm?_ It reminds him, strangely, of their string. Their bond. _Beginning_ is not synonymous with _infinity_ , not really, but eternity has to start somewhere. Doesn’t it?

Sylvain slips into a playful grin. Felix desperately wants to smudge it away, to replace it with something else. Less flashing teeth, maybe, and more closed-mouth thoughtfulness.

“A little poetic for you, isn’t it, Fe?”

The remark sends a ripple through him, and Felix’s lashes flutter shut. They cast weak shadows along his cheekbones in the growing light. _Fe._

Goddamn Sylvain. He could ignore him. Felix has never really tried, but he could. He’d draw a mental block like window shutters and block out Sylvain’s stupidity, his diamond-cut smile. Felix could roll his eyes and gallop over everything he says like it means nothing.

He could.

“You haven’t called me that in a while,” he says, in spite of himself. Felix’s voice is low, indulgent, like a secret. It’s unclear whether he permitted the words, or if they slipped out of their own accord. Perhaps they’d wanted to be said.

Perhaps they needed to be.

“Mm, well,” Sylvain adjusts his footing. He braces his hands on the stonework and nudges his gauntlets aside. The upturn of his lips grows a little more real. _Happier_ , Felix notes, with genuine wonder _._ “You always threatened to kill me when I did.”

“What — I did not,” Felix frowns. He shifts to face Sylvain, and he loosens as he does so. His muscles twinge as they relax, as if he’d unconsciously been waiting for this; his body drawn forth by the force that binds them. “You’re making things up.”

“As if I would,” Sylvain’s teeth flash. He rubs the underside of his nose, and the simple movement catches Felix’s gaze.

Divots are still pressed into his skin from where his armor marked him. His fingers are pale and long, scarred by years of training. The tips of them are pink in the retreating chill. His bare, open palm looks like a white star in the dusk. For once, Felix ignores the string. It hasn’t changed in the many years that he’s observed it, but Sylvain — he has.

A few things remain the same: his hair, all tousled and lustrous, glares the same shade as wild poppies. It’s as noticeable here as it was in Faerghus, his head a flame against the everlasting landscape of snow.

Sylvain’s grin. It’s lopsided, and Felix hates it, just a little. Or, well, _hate_ is a strong term; he loathes what it does to him, he supposes.

And his — _his face._ Felix has never been able to think about Sylvain’s face for very long. The sharp angles of his jawline, the smattering of freckles, the shape of his eyes; they’re familiar, always. An unchanging amber lit by friendship — by something deeper, even, if Felix dares to hope. He doesn’t often grant himself the luxury.

Years. So many years, and Sylvain has grown. They’ve been good to him. He’s become a man that Felix knows he can love, because he already does.

“Felix,” Sylvain says, once more tugging him from his tumultuous tide of thought. Some of the mirth has evaporated from his tone, and he exhales unsteadily. “I want — I meant to ask — ”

Felix hums in vague acknowledgment. He’s not sure what it could be, but it doesn’t matter. Sylvain’s worries, his requests — it’s moot, because Felix’s response is forever the same: _yes._ He’ll likely spend the rest of his days by Sylvain’s side, which is… Well, he could certainly think of worse things. Felix is content with his lot. He’s keeping a promise, and if it only means that and nothing else, that’s okay. 

It’s all right.

“What will you do, now that it’s over?”

The question is simple enough, though the way Sylvain asks it is surprisingly gentle. He’s docile, glancing away as he does so. It reminds Felix, then, of a deer.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. Felix hasn’t thought much beyond wondering if he’d ever see another rising sun. Now that he’s here it’s a roll of the dice, but he’s not about to say that out loud.

“You must have some idea,” Sylvain presses. There’s a thin veil between his words and the emotion behind them; they’re laden with some urgency, as if he wants to push, but won’t.

Felix rather hopes he will.

A tepid breeze crests the wall, tugging at them. It tosses loose strands of Felix’s hair, tickling his skin with its featherlight touch. He sighs into the air. “Nothing certain. Become a mercenary, maybe.”

He doesn’t look over at him as he speaks. The clanking of his armor is the only indicator that Sylvain is listening, contemplative as he adjusts his stance. 

“Sounds dangerous,” Sylvain admits slowly. There’s the clink of shifting chainmail, the release of a deep breath. “How about a street performer?”

Goddess above. Felix loathes him.

“Don’t be daft,” he coughs, stifling his laughter in the shell of his cupped glove. Sylvain has a talent for ruining any heartfelt discussion. “That more your expertise, I think.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he says. His arms lift behind his head as he grins, cradling it in an odd stretch. The pose has never looked comfortable to Felix, but Sylvain seems to relish in it, like he’s reclining. “It takes a certain type of talent.”

“To be a jester?”

“A _street performer_ ,” Sylvain corrects, and Felix does smile, then. “Don’t misquote me. But it’d be a charmed life, I think.”

“You would think so.” Felix nods. The idea of Sylvain dancing for coins is appalling. He doesn’t feel the need to contribute much on the subject.

“I would!” Sylvain says, indignant. “That’s why I brought it up.”

When Felix doesn’t deign him with a response, he gives a rueful sigh and diverts his attention towards the mountaintops. The sky is blue now, with daybreak just on the verge of spilling over the peaks entirely.

“I’d like it,” Sylvain murmurs, after a brief stint of quiet. “To only worry about the next place on the map.”

“Mhm,” Felix grunts. His hands skitter across the wall, a bit like an animal. If they’ve moved closer to Sylvain, he has nothing to say about it. “And performing, and earning enough to make a living...” 

Despite his argument, Felix has no doubt Sylvain would succeed. Perhaps not without him; he is a fool, after all, and fools always need some sort of counterbalance. If Felix isn’t his equalizer, then who?

Sylvain’s teeth flash in the growing brightness. “Semantics,” he chuckles. “Still. We’d see the whole world.”

 _We_ , Felix thinks. The uncanny pressure of the string around his finger seems to tighten. He doesn’t respond outside of his own thoughts. They trip over themselves in different permutations, _we_ and _us_ and _the world_ — the mere concept is dizzying. _Us, together._

_We’d see the world._

Sylvain, ever-blind to logic, takes Felix’s silence as a bland agreement. He prods at him with his elbow, brows cocked, as if to say, “ _A good idea, don’t you think?_ ”

In Sylvain’s defense, he’s not completely wrong; Felix is thinking about it. Not considering it, but thinking, the concept marinating behind pursed lips. He’d outright refuse a two-man circus, but to travel? Together?

“You’re considering it,” Sylvain says, unabashedly smug. He’s learned the panes of Felix’s expression far too well. Not a wrinkle or eye twitch can faze him, but if Felix thinks too much about that, it will drive him mad. He shelves it for a later date.

“No,” Felix dismisses him flatly. It’s not even a lie; he’s not going to become a street jester, regardless of whether Sylvain’s involved. “I’m not.”

“Oh, come on, Felix,” Sylvain still meets his cynicism with a grin. “Don’t you want to try?” He casts his arm out over the rousing town. “See more of what Fódlan has to offer?”

As Felix’s stare follows Sylvain’s hand, the houses in the valley below begin to awaken. Morning glimmers in their glass windows, reflecting prisms of color into the retreating darkness.

The implications of what Sylvain is asking are new to him. The question sits heavy upon his shoulders, fully exposed in the daylight.

_Don’t you want to try?_

The seconds stretch between them, each one as long as a minute. Felix watches the plumes of smoke blossoming in the chimneys below, the residents of Garreg Mach rising to their new dawn. 

He supposes he should, too.

“I do,” Felix says, changing tack. His heart thumps, beating a tattoo into the marrow of his bones. He glares downward so intensely that it really begins to hurt. “I want to. But not as — ” He interrupts himself to scowl. “Not as jesters.”

“ _Street performers_ — ”

“Street performers, whatever.” Felix glances up. He tilts his head, pensive, even as the pounding against his ribs worsens. He fears his chest may burst. “Is that what you want to do?”

“Uh,” Sylvain says intelligently. He blinks once, then twice, as if he hadn’t anticipated this response. “Not — not necessarily.”

“Then what?” His feet shuffle beneath him, and Felix scuffs his boot on the rough brick of the wall. He doesn’t move closer; he flattens his palm where it rests, and Sylvain tracks the movement. His breath is loud in his ears. “What do you want, Sylvain?”

The distance between them is charged with energy, thick and undefined. To Felix, it feels the same as the weight of a Levin sword in his fist — laced with lightning. He’s motionless but for the subtle dip of his chin. 

_Tell me._

For a moment, he doesn’t expect an answer. Sylvain isn’t the stoic sort, but he’s reluctant to profess what he’d deem to be a weakness — except with Felix. Never with him.

“I could — I could tell you,” Sylvain murmurs, then. His tone is as soft as the fur lining Felix’s coat; it brings him more warmth than the garment itself. His fingers flit along the stonework, grazing the tips of Felix’s gloves. “If you need to hear it aloud.”

Sylvain scuttles nearer, and his skin is hot through the leather. Felix’s breath lodges in his throat as he continues his ministrations, tracing patterns on the backs of his hands like a map is bored into the mitts.

 _Perhaps I should take them off_ , Felix thinks idly. He twists his wrist so it flexes, palm-up. His lungs reach full capacity, unable to swallow each shallow inhale. Sylvain hovers above him, restrained, before he fills the empty spaces between Felix’s fingers with his own. They curl on impulse, inextricably locking together.

The final piece of the puzzle falls into place.

“Will you come with me?”

When Sylvain speaks, it’s distant, as if he’s hearing it from underwater. Felix has to focus to understand him properly, and his attention already lies on their resting hands. Their thread is hardly visible like this, buried under his glove and entangled with one another.

“Felix?”

 _Where?_ Felix nearly asks, but he thinks he knows the answer. He tears his gaze away from the red string, turning to meet Sylvain’s. Behind them, the cresting sun emerges fully on the horizon, leeching away the last vestiges of night.

“To see the world?” Felix hums. It’s less a question than it is an assertion.

Sylvain’s grasp on Felix tightens, slight. The contact is a brand, each of the pads of his fingers a mild burn. He lifts their joined fists level with his nose, and Felix’s heart hammers a beat that could rival a war drum. 

“To see anything,” Sylvain’s eyes drift closed. His lips press against the sharp joint of Felix’s knuckle, brushing over their tightly wound thread. Even through the leather, Felix can feel his mouth moving gently against the back of his hand. “To see everything.”

“Everything,” Felix repeats. And isn’t that a thought? If his chest wasn’t fit to explode, he might have smiled. “Will we have enough time?”

A dimple blooms in Sylvain’s cheek. His thumb rubs soothing circles over Felix’s, and he draws him close once more. It’s warm, like coming home.

“Oh, we don’t have to worry about that,” Sylvain says. He delivers another quick kiss to the knot where they’re bound; it’s light, as fleeting as the touch of a butterfly’s wings. “We have every lifetime to account for.”

With some surprise, he realizes Sylvain is right.

For too long, Felix was submerged in anger and grief. It consumed him, breathing life through his veins with only the promise of _vengeance_ , of _glory_. He strove for it, training until his palms were rife with torn calluses and bloodied by the pommel of his sword. He fought, he cried, and it brought him to victory in war.

Felix thought an end to the battle would bring him peace, but all he found was a barren landscape like that old Faerghus tundra; an empty canvas of loss and infinite hollowness. 

It was never about winning. At least, not completely.

It’s about eternity, and finding his way with a band of broken comrades. It’s who stood by him throughout, who saw his pain and loved him regardless.

For the first time since the death of his brother, Felix’s insides aren’t tangled and frayed. The surging in his stomach makes him feel as though he’s floating, adrift in an open sea. 

“I love you,” Felix says, quiet in the burgeoning dawn.

His grip slips from Sylvain’s, only to reach forward and caress the shell of his face. He drinks in the blatant affection he finds there; it’s as clear as Sylvain’s honeyed eyes, as vibrant as his flushed skin beneath faint freckles.

Felix exhales. It billows forth like a puff from a dragon. “I will love you in every life.”

The curve of Sylvain’s mouth is sharp in the growing light, a beacon at daybreak. It glows brighter than the sun.

Between them, the red thread grows taut. And Felix thinks, _this is infinite._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my darlings jenna, leslie, and hojo for reading this over and reassuring my every qualm <3 here, take [this sylvix playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/39XHL8Cx5I1dHjbD3FrS7G) I made after crying over their verdant wind ending. no I am not ok
> 
> if you read this when it was first posted, it was initially a two-chap deal! I recently ran some edits to make it a oneshot, because I thought it fit better. thank you for reading, as always <3
> 
> talk to me!  
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/dekusneakers?lang=en)  
> [my tumblr](https://milk-bun.tumblr.com)


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